


never give a sword to a man who can't dance

by bowlingfornerds



Series: Zombieland [9]
Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based in Season 1, F/M, Zombie Apocalypse, a lot of Bad Parenting, the least smutty smut ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: You don’t use guns, but here is a boy who does and shoots a gun like he takes a breath; slowly, precisely, perfectly. You meet 10k and by God, do you love him.





	1. never give a sword to a man who can't dance

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first Z Nation fic I ever wrote. It was published forever ago in separate parts on tumblr (tempestaurora, i cba to link), and I really liked it and was really proud of it, so I thought I'd put it here with the rest of my fan fic.
> 
> I actually can't remember if I need to tag for anything, so I'll update the tags as I upload the parts.
> 
> Enjoy

 

The oil yard has been your home for all of twenty minutes when you hear the truck pull in. There are zombies everywhere; attracted to the clanking of the factory machines that run even without assistance; and their growling has become the soundtrack for your day as you climbed around the building.

Climbing’s always been your thing; it’s about the height, you assume. You’ve never been the tallest, so being higher than everyone else; fire-escapes, trees, ladders – it’s almost as if they _call_ to you. You know it’s stupid to think that way, but it’s easy to duck into a window alcove as the vehicle pulls in across the yard, barely making a single Z turn around.

There’s a group – maybe five of them, you’re not sure. They heft guns, pointing about the factory and talking amongst themselves. For a while, you watch; waiting for them to leave so you can find somewhere to hide out for the night. It’s always been easier to do that when no one knows you’re around; when no one can see you climb up the side of a building and get curious.

But they’re not leaving – instead, they’re hefting guns and running towards the machines. Carefully, you crawl to the edge of the alcove, watching them kill. A few of them are swift and graceful with it; like the girl with red hair and a leather jacket, or the black woman who doesn’t even seem worried to be amongst the dead. The older man with greying hair is a little more clunky; like he’s having fun with it, like he’s just enjoying the ride. Then there’s the man with the gun. You don’t take too much interest – never have with guns – but there’s just something about the way he shoots; about how he never misses, about the perfectly centred bullet holes.

You watch as they aim for the fuel; the gunman heads up the fire escape, shooting down Zs in his way as he goes, and the older man runs for the fuel. There’s a lot of fighting; a lot of gunshots, and you relax now, leaning your head against the wall as you realise how long this will be. You can’t move yet; just watch the boy shoot perfect shots with his back ramrod straight. Just watch the red-haired girl hit her silver bat into zombies’ faces.

Then it goes wrong – you can sense it. They get the fuel all right; and three of them make it back to the truck; a man waiting inside the whole time. They fill up easy enough, before looking back for the other – for the black-haired boy with the gun. You frown, watching as they begin to panic. You don’t hear the gunshots, so maybe-

“I’m out of ammo!” he yells, you can hear him. He’s near to you – near enough that you could reach him; you could climb along, but-

Why would you do that? You don’t know these people.

They scramble to figure out a plan; there’s zombies all around, growling up at the gunman. You huff, straightening now.

“Fuck it,” you breathe. He’s going to die if you don’t.

It’s quick; gut-reaction of swinging from bar to pole to fire-escape; like you’re born for it, which you were, really. It’s as easy as breathing, as letting the air into your lungs and exhaling it back out. It’s a choice that you make, swiftly jumping from place to place. Your foot connects with a zombie’s head at one point, but you don’t add it to your count – not until it’s dead.

Then you climb up; swinging your legs over the metal guards when you reach the same level as him on the metal catwalk.

He stares at you for a moment, and you register a lot about him; hair – black like a raven, eyes – a green blue that reminds you of the sea, skin – white like a ghost. For a second, you stare and swallow and pretend you’re not lost for words. Then you shove the moment away; you are _never_ lost for words.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet, quirking up the edges of your lips. The man – boy? You can’t tell his age – narrows his eyes at you for a moment before he nods.

“Hi,” he replies.

“Need some help?” He glances down at his gun – a sniper rifle, you think – before looking back to you and nodding.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m out, do you have any clips?” You snort, pulling out the Dao blades that are strapped to your shoulders; identical swords with thin blades, slicing through the air.

“I don’t fight with guns,” you shrug. He raises his eyebrows.

“None at all?” You gesture towards yourself; the katana strapped to your back under the sheath for the Dao swords; the machete at your hip, the knives around your calves.

“None at all.”

“So what’s the plan then?” You’re about two stories up, at least, and jumping is out of the option – you’d probably break your legs. Besides, he doesn’t look like the free running type.

“Head down the catwalk, get to the level below,” you tell him, pointing one of the blades to the blocked off ladder at the end. “From there we can jump to the ground, fight our way out. How does that sound?” He nods, hefting his gun in one hand and pulling out a knife with the other.

“How would you have done it if I weren’t here?” he asks as you follow him along the walkway. There’s a smile tugging at your lips over the question.

“Jump to the fire escape, climb down, probably. Or maybe up, go along the roof and come back down on the other side – I think there’s a drain pipe I could use to slide down.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, looking over his shoulder and you feel your mouth go dry. _Not now, y/n_ , you tell yourself. _Later, when you’re on your own again_.

At the ladder, you and he look at each other for about a second before you jump. There’s a clang where your boots land on the metal, but then there’s just that of the zombies, howling. Your blades slice through their heads like butter; your body moving in sync with itself, perfect balance, perfect technique – it’s like dancing, and God have you missed doing that in the living room with your sisters. It feels like that again; only sickly, with darkness clouding the edges of your vision instead of tinted with gold.

Then the man’s there, with you, piking one Z and going along to the next. You call for him to follow, and he does as you swing your legs over the side and jump to the ground. The hoard of zombies surrounds you, but there’s something about fighting back to back with a person – covered by yourself and them; blades cutting through the air, then skin, bone, brain. You’re spattered with blood but it still feels beautiful, in your head – like magic.

“Come on,” he tells you, tugging at your arm, and you’re running. You follow him, sprinting away from the hoard, aiming for the truck. Everyone’s already on board, engine running, and he climbs on first. The girl with red hair takes his gun and he jumps up, immediately turning to you. He holds out his hand, the truck pulling away, and for a split second you wonder if you should follow – if you’d do better on your own. But there are Zs behind you, and in front of you is a cute boy with eyes like the sea, and so you chuck your blades into the bed of the truck, and grab his hand.

You jump up onto the back of the truck, and he pulls you in, the vehicle skidding away and kicking up dust into the zombies’ eyes.

For a moment, you sit there, crouched and breathing heavily. You’re a climber, not a runner. You were not made for marathons.

Then, you sit up, pressing yourself against the side of the truck, and reaching for your blades, sheathing them. The red head and the older man are with you; eyeing you as if you’re about to pike them and steal their ride.

You remember the zombies, replaying the fight and counting how many you took out. You’re good with remembering; good with knowing your kills; replaying events how they happened. It’s a gift, you suppose – or maybe just a photographic memory.

“What’s your name?” the red head asks. You pause in your counting for a moment, scrunching up your nose in thought.

“Hold on,” you mutter, wincing as you remember. “I’m counting.”

“Counting what?” she asks. You’ve got the count and you add it onto your total from that morning.

“Kills,” you reply. “Something to keep me sane.” You look over to her, before looking to the boy with the gun. He’s surprised and you sit up, glancing at the others. “What?”

“You count your kills?” he asks. You nod. “I do the same.” The corners of your lips quirk up, and you exhale a smile.

“How many are you at?”

“Nine thousand, three hundred and twelve,” he says.

“Damn,” you huff. “Nine thousand, two hundred and forty four.” The man grins; cracks a real smile, all toothy and bright and you wonder how he can look so hard on the outside and then melt into something so beautiful and happy.

“Oh Lord,” the older man sighs. “There’s two of ‘em.”

“Don’t tell me your name is your kill goal, too?” the red head asks. You frown.

“No,” you reply. “But I change my name with every group I’m with – so maybe that’s just as strange.” It’s a precaution, you tell yourself every time you make up a new name. It’s a safety measure; something to keep people from finding you, from looking for you and succeeding. “What’s the goal?”

“Ten thousand,” he replies. “Ten Kay.” 10k. You swallow. It’s an odd name, but he’s odd; with his gun and his goggles perched on the top of his head; the camouflage shirt and scarf.

“I’m Addy, and this is Doc,” the red head says. “What name are you going with this time?” You pause, racking your brain.

“Ever had a Charlie before?” you question, looking around the group. They’re silent before nodding.

“A long time ago, yeah,” Addy replies.

“Sore subject,” you nod. “I’ll go with something else then. Jessie?” They shrug and you nod, looking to 10k who seems to be studying you. You reach out your hand, _Jesus, y/n, what are you doing?_

“Nice to save your ass, 10k,” you say, and he shakes your hand. “I’m Jessie.” The smile on his face – half happy, half smirking, makes you glad you left your hiding place to help keep him alive.


	2. the art of storytelling

“Puppies and kittens,” Warren calls from where she sits on the front of the truck. You frown, climbing to your feet and leaning on the cabin.

“Why does she call it that?” you ask Addy, who leans beside you. She smiles; something fierce and feral – like all of her smiles.

“Because they’re really _not_ puppies and kittens,” Addy explains.

“But they’re really _not_ elephants and giraffes either,” you point out. “Why doesn’t she call them that?”

“Stop questioning me, kid,” Warren tells you, slipping off of the front of the truck where she was resting. Up ahead, a group of about five zombies meander towards your group. You’ve been with them for about two weeks; soaking up the desert sun and declining a gun every time you’re offered one. You would think they would stop offering.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, as 10k squeezes in on the other side of you. He positions his sniper rifle on the top of the cabin, and looks through the scope, eyeing the zombies.

“Want me to take ‘em out?” he asks, glancing over to Warren, whose fingers are twitching by her gun.

“Go for it – don’t waste your bullets if you can help it.” 

Doc snorts from where he sits in the cabin, door open and legs dangling out.

“The kid never misses,” he gloats. “He’s not going to waste any bullets.”

True to Doc’s word, 10k shoots each one straight through the head. One is further behind another, and he gets them both with a single shot. Each time he lines another up, you hear his gentle exhale of breath as he squeezes the trigger. Maybe there’s a trick to having guns, you assume – maybe there’s a way that you can feel less like a cold-blooded killer when you hold them. But that’s just not something you’ve learned how to do just yet – glorified kitchen knives make you feel more safe than the pistols your friends all carry.

When the zombies are all dead on the floor (“nine thousand, four hundred and nine”), and Doc is done congratulating 10k , everyone climbs back into the truck. The sixth member of the group is asleep in the back seat – he does that a lot, Murphy. His skin is tinged blue and he doesn’t really seem to care about living or dying. He’s questionable, and you don’t like asking questions.

The group doesn’t seem to enjoy answering ones that haven’t been asked though, and it all gets more suspicious with constantly trying to radio Citizen Z – the guy from the stereo that you used to listen to every night through the walls of an old apartment complex full of drugged up survivors. You’d assumed he was nothing more than a radio presenter who’d found a safe space and thought it would be nice to fulfil his lifelong dream of delivering the news – but it seems like he’s more “NSA” than you thought.

“What’s Murphy about?” you ask 10k that night. The two of you are on watch, together – a job you seem to be sharing since you arrived.

“What about him?” he asks quietly, sitting next to you on the front of the truck, leaned back against the windshield.

“He’s blue – like Milo from the Teletubbies or something,” you whisper back. 10k raises his eyebrows.

“The Teletubbies?” You frown.

“Okay, wrong reference for you. The Avatar blokes from Pandora.” He just turns to look at you, still confused.

“With the big tree? The three hour film? Way too over-hyped for what it was?” Apparently, 10k has not heard of neither the Teletubbies nor Avatar, and this disappoints you greatly. Still. “Okay, we’ll figure out a good pop culture reference for you, the survivalist-wood-living-in-boy, later on,” you sigh. “Murphy is blue. Please explain.”

10k is quiet for a moment, looking out ahead at the darkened landscape. Above you, the moon is almost full, and stars litter the night sky. They’re always brighter out in the desert; always brighter everywhere, really, now there’s no light pollution.

“Iron deficiency,” he decides. And it sounds like a decision; like he was making up his mind about what bullshit to feed you, so you roll your eyes and nudge him; his skin warm on yours. “Fine,” he says, low and quiet. “He got bit by some Zs, about a year ago.” Your eyebrows shoot up, turning your head to face him better. “Yeah, but he has this experimental drug in his body – it kept him alive. That’s what we’re doing out here; getting him to a place so they can run some tests and get the zombie vaccine.”

“Those anti-vaccinators are gonna be _pissed_ ,” you mutter, and 10k snorts. “Oh, so _that_ reference you get?” He grins.

“My Dad was fighting the good vaccination fight, even from the woods,” he promises, making you roll your eyes in return. You’re silent for a moment, before you glance back over.

“So, this is humanity’s only hope?” you ask. He nods.

“Unfortunately.”

“The asshole who sleeps most of his day away, and complains for the rest of it, is humanity’s _only surviving hope_.”

“Precisely,” 10k nods.

“We’re fucked,” you say, and he lets out a bark of laughter – so loud in the quiet of the night. 10k clamps a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to calm down, before letting it slip away.

“You shouldn’t swear,” he says.

“No, _you_ shouldn’t swear,” you reply. “I, on the other hand, am an expert swearer – I know rude words in lots of different languages, and I’ve been practising them for years.” He snorts.

“Do you know any of the rest of the languages?” he asks. You roll your eyes.

“What would I need the rest of the languages for?” you reply with a shrug. “I can say, _I will impale you on my dick_ in Croatian, and that’s all I will ever need to say if I ever go there.”

“You’re just going to impale everyone on a…?” he nods to his crotch and you grin brightly.

“Of course,” you nod. “It’s the way of the world. Kill zombies, run for your life, impale people on dicks.” 10k shakes his head slowly.

“I should’ve gone on watch with Addy,” he mutters good-naturedly. “She tells me stories at least.”

“I’m not a good storyteller,” you reply, scrunching up your nose. “I like hearing stories – but you’ve heard enough to be good at telling them, right?”

“That’s not how it works, Jessie,” 10k rolls his eyes, and it’s almost like the fake name you gave feels real. They’ve all called you Jessie, never second-guessed it, and maybe you could actually _be_ Jessie, this time. It was never like this, when you were Alex, Jamie, Skylar. You never felt like you had a chance at being them – but Jessie. Jessie feels like it’s sinking into your bones; through your skin, and ingraining itself there; a part of you.

You only let this realisation stop you for a second, before you swallow. “Yes it is,” you reply. “So you should use your new-found storytelling skills to tell me stories, and then when I’ve heard enough, I’ll be good at it, and will be able to tell you stories in return.”

It’s like 10k sees right through you – the old, _you tell me something, I’ll tell you something_. He recognises it and nods anyway, shifting on the front of the truck. You both do a quick scan of the area – zombie free – before he looks over.

“What do you want to hear?” he asks. For a second, you’re tempted to ask him something silly – for the three little bears, or Cinderella. But they feel a long way away from you both – different universes from the one you two share.

“Why don’t you swear?” you ask finally, and in the darkness you can see him smile knowingly.

“My mother never liked it,” he replies, looking out into the distance. You watch him, though; watch the way his mouth tilts, and his eyelashes flutter. You watch the way his fingers rub against each other, picking at his nail or scratching at his skin. “My Dad used to swear a lot, before she died. When I was a kid, they were the first words I picked up and she couldn’t stand it. There was a swear jar in the house, and my Dad would contribute to it like twenty times a day. They’d take money from my allowance every time I repeated any of them back.”

You smile at him, with him, as he remembers the way life used to be before zombies began attacking; before you all feared for your lives on the daily.

“The money used to go to buying nice things for the house – new rugs, new plates, one time we saved up enough to get a new TV.” You can see his smile, the way it’s wistful and nostalgic. “When Mum died – that’s when we moved into the woods. Dad was always a survivalist; always ready for Armageddon. We never needed the TV, never needed the internet. Hell, I’ve never even seen porn.”

“ _Really_?” you interrupt. He glances over, nodded.

“I’ve been told it’s good,” he replies. You make a face, holding out your hand and tipping it from side to side.

“Nothing special,” you say, and he grins.

“Well, I’ll never see it now,” he replies. “It was like the day Mum died, we dropped that life. Didn’t need television or internet, didn’t need the real world – just the woods and guns and fishing. Swearing, too, got dropped the moment she was buried. We had the swear jar still, but it was empty, you know? If Mum had known the way to stop us from swearing was just to drop dead, I sometimes think she just would’ve gone and done it.”

“Really?” You raise your eyebrows and he cracks another smile.

“She was a _if you want the job done right, do it yourself_ kind of person,” he says. “Now, do you have a story for me?” You shift a little, leaning your head against his shoulder. You’re on watch, you can’t fall asleep, but you want to. At least you can get comfortable, you think.

“Nah,” you reply. “I don’t know how to tell one yet.”

“Okay,” he says as a whisper, his hands fidgeting next to yours. “Do you want to hear about the time I almost drowned?”

“Obviously,” you mumble. 10k launches into the next story, and the stars glisten above you, seemingly brighter than before.


	3. bang, bang, you're dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fifty bullets in your head
> 
> also, plot happens.

You almost die. And it’s (mostly) your fault.

“You need to learn to use a gun,” Warren huffs, as you hobble back to the truck. It was a group of survivors that got in your way. They were all armed to the teeth with fire arms, and whilst your group was pointing theirs back, you were holding your swords, hoping to dear God you could deflect bullets with them.

(The hole in your arm says you can’t.)

“I understand your opinion,” you tell her as 10k climbs up into the bed of the truck ahead of you, and pulls you up. “But I’m not going to do it.” There’s silence. Apparently it’s not okay to disagree with Warren – or worse, talk back. You’ve been with them for a month, you’re an idiot for forgetting it.

Warren fixes you with a glare, sidling up to the bed of the truck, where you’re standing – and even though she’s so much shorter than you right now, she feels huge, intimidating.

“You are _going_ to learn how to use a gun,” she bites out. You swallow nervously, forcing your face to stay neutral. “I refuse to let you be the reason any member of this team dies – you and your stupid _no guns_ rule.”

Then, Warren slams into the truck, and 10k glances over to you.

“When we stop for the night, I can teach you,” he says. You huff, sitting down in the bed, him following along beside you. Your arm is throbbing; the bandages Doc wrapped around it slowly tinting with red. It was a clean shot – in and out – but it hurts like a bitch.

You nod, leaning your head back against the window to the cabin of the truck and biting down hard on your tongue, to give yourself something else to focus on.

-

You park at the edge of a corn field just before the sun begins to set, and you help set up the awning before Warren hands 10k a pistol and nods over to you.

Your jaw locks but you follow 10k out into the field anyway; towards the tree line on the opposite side.

“Guns,” he begins, holding up the pistol for you. You swallow, your hands planted firmly by your sides. He rolls his eyes, pulling out a knife and wandering over to a tree. There, he digs it into the bark, making a cross, before looking back to you. “I personally love them with all of my being.”

“Obviously.”

“Why do you hate them?” He doesn’t say it in a curious way, and maybe that’s why you tell him. Maybe it’s because you know this is just part of him teaching you – and not him asking you to tell him all of your secrets.

You sigh, looking to the gun in his hand. “Dad hates them,” you explain with a shrug. He waits, but you don’t say anything else.

“ _And?”_ You roll your eyes.

“At the beginning of the apocalypse, he wouldn’t let us have guns. There was only one, and it was his – the rest of us had baseball bats, kitchen knives, stuff like that. He wouldn’t let us touch his gun, let alone ones we found out on the road.” 10k watches you carefully; almost distant, like he doesn’t care, but you can tell he does – there’s just something in his eyes.

You scan the trees as you talk, and the pictures flash through your head; your father – tall with a gut, and your mother, short and petite. “He used to tells us that guns were only for killers – you use a gun and there’s no going back, you’re a killer; a murderer. I’m not a killer, 10k. I’m not. I won’t be.”

“Jessie,” he says lowly, the fake name ringing in your ears like a siren. You wonder what it would be like if he called you by your real name – would your heart tumble inside your chest, would your cheeks turn pink? (You suspect so.) “You’ve killed over nine thousand zombies. You’ve killed _survivors_ , too – I’ve seen it. You did that without a gun.”

“You’re not helping,” you mutter, eyeing the weapon in his hand.

“How long has your father been dead?” he asks, and you look up at him.

“Not dead,” you reply. “But, I haven’t seen him in almost two years.” He nods, not stopping to question you right now.

“It’s been two years, and you’re still believing his words, Jess,” he tells you, stepping closer. “It’s an apocalypse; we have to kill to survive. And guns – guns don’t make people killers. Guns don’t do the killing. The people behind them do, in the same way that the person holding the sword does.”

There’s silence for a moment; just the gentle breeze and the corn stalks brushing against one another. You grit your teeth, your eyes on your feet before nodding. 10k’s right. Guns aren’t inherently bad. _You’ve got to stop listening to him, y/n,_ you tell yourself, pushing the image of your father from your mind. _But just because you’re not around him doesn’t mean he’s lost his control_. It burns your skin to think that, but it’s true.

Without hesitation, you hold out your hand for the gun, and 10k gently passes it over. It’s heavy in your hand; warm plastic and metal, weighted and deadly. For a moment, it’s just you and the weapon, and you find yourself yearning for your blades. Then, 10k steps forward and shows you how to reload it, how to click off the safety, how to aim it, and your mind sticks to the task at hand.

“Make sure you keep your hand underneath,” he instructs, repositioning your hands as you point the gun at the tree. His skin is warm on yours, and calloused. You bite back the smile as he steps away. “Try shooting.”

You aim, taking a shot, and missing by a mile as the bang echoes. You absently wonder how many Zs heard that.

“Alright, again,” he says. “This time, don’t shut your eyes – you wouldn’t keep one eye closed when you’re using the swords, you don’t need to now.”

“You shoot with one eye closed,” you mutter, re-aiming the gun.

“That’s with the rifle,” he replies. “That’s when there’s a scope. You don’t have a scope, so it’s both eyes open.” You nod, giving it another go, and you’re closer, but still no dice. “Breathe out as you squeeze the trigger,” he tells you. “You’re holding your breath, waiting for the kickback. Relax into it.” Relax into using a _gun_ , your mind screams, but you nod.

This time, you at least _hit_ the tree. 10k isn’t the type to cheer, but he’s smiling, and that feels like a victory.

-

About half an hour later, you’ve hit the cross _once_ and 10k takes the gun back.

“That’s it,” he decides. “I can’t handle watching you fail so many times in such a short amount of time.” You frown at him, pointing to the target, your arm throbbing and hot from the bullet wound.

“I _did_ hit it,” you point out. He rolls his eyes, heading over and tapping the bullet hole.

“At the _edge_ of the X, Jess! It’s practically a miss!” You huff, running your fingers through your hair, frustrated.

“I tried, 10k,” you tell him. “I did.”

“I know,” he replies. “You’ll just have to practice more. Have a gun with you when we’re fighting Zs and maybe you’ll get a good shot in there.” You nod, hands gripping at the hilt of your machete at your hip. “How did you learn how to sword fight?” he asks, and it’s almost like he’s trying to cheer you up, so you smile, looking at the blades strapped all over your body.

“About a year into the apocalypse I found the Dao swords,” you say, slinging the straps from your shoulders. You do the same with the katana, before dumping it on the floor. Then your machete, too. After a beat, you pull your jacket off, with just a threadbare t-shirt underneath. With the Dao blades in your hands, you twirl them around your fingertips, feeling the weights perfect in your hands. “They were just sitting there, and I took them. About a month later we met some survivors – one of them knew how to use them, and taught me the basics before we went separate ways.”

You flip one of the swords, so the blade balances perfectly on your arm, the hilt on the back of your hand. “They’re broad swords,” you continue. “And duel sword fighting is trickier than single, because you have to focus on all of your surroundings; on multiple targets and the way your entire body is moving.” You continue to flip the swords as you step towards the corn gracefully on the balls of your feet. “I was told it’s one of the major Chinese weapons, known as the most reckless and daring.” You flip them, before grasping them firmly and sweeping the blades out in an arch.

You don’t feel them slice through the corn but you know they do, watching the stalks fall to the ground moments after.

“They’re not separate weapons,” you explain, continuing to move about the corn, letting yourself feel the movements as gentle and slow. It’s like dancing once again; like feeling the way your body shifts and changes as the blades control themselves. You barely even notice the pain in your arm anymore; your mind focused on the swords. “They’re two halves of a single sword; so both must move in harmony.”

You move like you used to dance; so graceful and poised. You barely even notice the Z running towards you; just add it into the movements, your blades crossing through the zombie’s head at the same time, slitting it open with blood pouring out. (Nine thousand, three hundred and six.)

When you stop, you turn to look at 10k, almost forgetting he was there, having gotten lost in the dance. He’s smiling openly; in awe as he gazes upon you.

“I don’t say this often,” he tells you. “But that was beautiful.”

-

Later, you tell him about your family, because he asked, because you agree that you might not be terrible at storytelling. This time, you’re sitting on top of the cabin of the truck, cross-legged and back to back, leaning on one another. You’re facing the corn fields, and you can see the area in the distance that you chopped away. Behind you, 10k faces the road and a field of soil.

“I’m one of five,” you tell him, almost choking out the words. “James, Ryan, me, Louise and Annie. In that order. Louise died when she was five, before the zombies came about. Cancer. I was seven at the time, so I don’t really remember it, but I do remember sharing a room with my brothers because Lou’s immune system became so weak that even a sneeze could kill her just like that.”

“That sucks,” 10k mutters behind you, and you nod, before leaning your head back slightly, so it brushes against his. It’s the early morning; sun just about rising over the horizon – but not yet. Pre-dawn light spills across you both, so tired, so tired. Everything about you feels heavy; your limbs, your lungs, your head, your memories.

“Ryan died after the apocalypse started. That was a zombie. We weren’t fast enough and neither was he. Dad mercied him, I think. We buried his body and moved on. When I left, everyone else was still alive.”

“Why did you leave?”

You know why 10k was alone, before he found the group. He told you on a hot day as you searched through a supermarket for food. You know about his father dying; having to tie him down and staring into his eyes, hoping to find something still human. You wonder if he thinks all fathers are as good and kind as his; how surprised he would be to find that they’re not.

Before you can think it through, you shift forward, away from 10k, and pull off your swords, like you’d done the day before. Now, though, you set them beside you, and shrug off your jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you why I left. I’m not good at storytelling – I’m good at showing.” You hesitate, but you tug off your t-shirt, revealing the bare expanse of skin of your back. Glancing over your shoulder, you find him pointedly looking away. “10k,” you say. “Look.” He does as instructed, and you catch the way his eyes widen as the scar, curling down across your spine, from side to side. Without even thinking, his hand reaches forwards, finger tips brushing against the taut white skin. You shudder, swallowing, before he retracts his hand.

“What happened?”

“My father didn’t like that I thought he was a dick,” you sigh. 10k stays silent, and you continue. “I used to love him so much; he was my favourite person on the planet. Then, we reached the day when he told us he was going to kill the people we were travelling with, so we could take their things. He wanted us to help.”

“And he thought not using a gun would keep you from being a killer?”10k asks incredulously, maybe a little loud. His eyes are still burning on your back and you nod.

“His logic was flawed,” you admit, but you must be too to not realise. “I said no, he thought he could _teach me a lesson_. James helped me escape that night.”

“Did he come, too?”

“No,” you breathe, your fist tightening around the fabric of the t-shirt in your hands. “He wouldn’t leave Mum and Annie. I went on my own.”

“You’re not on your own anymore,” 10k tells you quietly. You look over to him, to his eyes meeting yours, so earnest and truthful. You hesitate before nodding, and he smiles, something warm and comforting. “We’re your family now.”


	4. two in a bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you could almost call it smut, but it's also the least smutty smut scene ever written.

You love 10k. There’s no other way to put it; no other way to explain the pounding of your heart, and the way your stomach tumbles when he’s around. There’s no other way make sense of the how you’d save him first; over everyone, over Murphy that goddamn last hope for humanity. It’s probably bad that you’d throw away the world’s last shot at a cure just for that boy, but you do not care in the slightest.

There’s an earthquake inside your body when you realise this – like your world is being shaken apart just because of the way you might possibly feel.

So it’s better when he kisses you back in a gas station bathroom when you’re supposed to be checking if there’s running water. The seas even out, and the ground stops shaking, and his fingers grip at your hips tightly, like he _knows_ you’re not fragile. He goes for it; with the way he breathes you in, and your fingers card through his hair, holding him close and not letting go.

There’s beauty in the way he loves you back.

“There’s no running water,” you tell him, when you pull apart, and he cracks a grin.

“Shame,” he replies. “We should go and tell Warren.”

“Or…” you press your lips to his again, feeling him push back with just as much urgency. You wonder if this is his first kiss; if this is the first time anyone has ever held him this way. It’s not for you, but-

He never talks about anyone else. Neither does Addy, when you’re walking along with her, or sitting by her in the truck. And she likes to tell you stories about people; about their time together before you came along. She likes to catch you up on everything that happened, and the only people she’s mentioned 10k ever being close to were Doc (a no-brainer) and a girl named Cassandra, who was like a sister to him.

You don’t ask if it’s his first kiss though, when you pull away. Instead, you smile at him; bright and beaming, and watch the way he returns it. Then you nod, your hand trailing down his arm as you step past him; fingers catching onto his and tugging him with you as you leave.

Your hands drop away from each other out in the open, as you call for Warren. “No water,” you tell her. She frowns, Addy and Doc returning from the gas station store.

“One tin can that rolled under the shelves,” Doc says.

“We’ll try the next place we see,” Warren decides, and they all file back into the truck, and head back out onto the open road.

Maybe you’re not obvious about it; you and 10k. You don’t kiss in front of them, you don’t hold hands, but you’re comfortable. You find a home in the way your head rests on his shoulder, in the way he tries to teach you to shoot, even though you’ve been at it for a month. You know the way he looks when he watches you practice with your swords; knows the expression that is painted across his face, and you suppose that the others do, too.

You’re not obvious about being together, but at the same time, it’s the most obvious thing of all.

It was pre-destined, you two being together. It was fate in a way you never understood; like you couldn’t find yourself loving anyone other than this boy.

“It’s the way you look at him,” Addy tells you, when you didn’t even ask the question. Just the two of you are in the bed of the truck, watching the world pass you by; the trees, the clouds in the sky, the bodies on the side of the road. “It’s clear as day that you two are together.”

“How bad would you feel if I told you we actually weren’t?” you ask, a smirk playing across you lips. Addy laughs.

“Almost not at all,” she replies. “Because then this would be some kind of wake up call about getting your act together and telling him how you feel. But you’ve already done that, right?” You nod, the smirk turning into a smile as you duck your head. She grins, victorious, and clasps your hand in hers.

“Is he even a decent kisser?” she asks. “I’ve actually been wondering about this – he’s got zero experience, so does he even know what to do with his hands?” You laugh this time, tipping your head back, your hair getting caught in the wind.

“He knows what to do with his hands,” you promise. “And he was surprisingly good. I was expecting worse, actually.” Addy grins at you.

“He’s so into you, it’s crazy,” she says. “For a kid who’s so distant, 10k really makes it clear how he feels about you.” You look away from Addy, smiling into the wind and mentally kicking yourself for not kissing him sooner. “You are… you are happy, right?” Addy asks. You look back to her; her smile gone, and her eyes serious. “You’re happy with 10k, yeah? You’re happy with this group?”

You nod, wondering how this can even be a question. “Of course,” you promise. “I’m so happy here. With this group, with 10k, with _you_.” Addy smiles again, leaning her head on your shoulder.

“I’m glad,” she says. “I prefer the group with you in it, than without.”

-

The group finds a motel.

It’s about five stories high, and the front door is barred, but it’s a motel, and there’s a possibility of running water.

“But we can’t get in,” Murphy points out. “There’s the door, there’s the metal cage across it. Let’s find somewhere else.” You study the building for a moment, looking up at the windows, the bricks, before smiling.

“I can get us in,” you say. Their heads turn to you, and you nod. They haven’t really seen you climb – not for a few months, not since the day you saved 10k and joined them. There haven’t been chances so far, besides the odd tree.

“You can get in there and open the cage?” Warren asks, causing you to shrug.

“I don’t see why not.” She gestures for you to go ahead, and you smile, sending a wink back at 10k, who’s watching. After a quick stretch, you run towards the building, placing your foot on the wall to help you jump up, and climb onto the drain pipe. It’s plastic and not as solid as others you’ve climbed before, so you jump from there onto a window sill, pressing into the alcove.

There’s a freedom filling your bones as you climb, trying to find a room without a zombie inside. There’s adrenaline in your blood, the wind whistling through your ears, and the distance between you and the ground makes your stomach drop in the best of ways. You grin as you jump from one window ledge to another; stupid stunts that you shouldn’t pull, but so happy to finally be back up in the air.

When you’re three stories up, you peer through the window and find the room empty. Gripping tightly onto the wall, you kick your foot hard through the glass, wincing at the shatter. Then you jump inside.

It’s dark, the lights are off and the room is empty. Distantly, you can hear a thumping, like a zombie walking into a wall over and over, and you unsheathe your machete, twirling it around your fingers as you walk cautiously through the room. After checking the rest of the room is clear, you take a breath, opening the door to the hallway.

Almost immediately you hear the growl, see the dripping blood, the detached jaw, the grey skin. You duck as the Z swings out its arm towards you, stabbing the machete through its stomach. It howls and you pull the blade back out, piking it in the forehead, (nine thousand, four hundred and forty nine) before turning to look around the rest of the dark hallway.

There’s no more zombies in sight, so you tread carefully and quietly, knowing any of the rooms could house another unwanted guest. You head towards the stairwell, cringing at each loud noise you make as your boots come into contact with the linoleum flooring. You slice your blade through another Z as you go, not even watching it fall to the floor. (Nine thousand, four hundred and fifty.)

You keep going, feeling your heart pounding in your chest, your eyes straining through the darkness. Eventually you find a light switch, and you pause, sending a quick prayer to a god you’re not sure if you even believe in anymore, before flicking it. A relieved smile graces your lips when the lights flicker on, before you push through a door into the reception. With the lights on, you can see your group by the doors, looking in at you. There’s electricity in this goddamn shithole – there could be running water, too.

With that thought in mind, you find the switch for the cages, and watch them roll up. It’s loud and cranky, the noise, and you pike another Z who was hiding behind the front desk. (Nine thousand, four hundred and fifty one.)

A moment later, the group is inside and you’re smiling at them.

“That was fun,” you say. “I should do that again some time.” Warren rolls her eyes.

“Doc, Addy,” she says. “Go round the back and see if they have a water tank – if there’s any left we might be having showers tonight.” You watch them leave before Warren turns back to you. “Where did you learn that?” she asks.

“My brother,” you reply. “He’s always been into free running and parkour and stuff – just sort of followed his lead.” Warren nods approvingly.

“As long as it doesn’t kill you,” she agrees.

10k leans on the front desk next to you as you wait, and when Addy and Doc come back, they’re smiling.

“There’s water,” Doc announces, and Murphy lets out a half-hearted ‘woo’.

“But there’s not enough for six individual showers,” Addy continues. “We’ll have to double up.” The entire group groans as one.

“Fine,” Warren decides. “I call Addy. Let’s go check the rooms – see what we’ve got.” You share a glance with 10k before following along, the group checking each room and the water on the second floor, where you’ve decided to make camp. They’re mostly family rooms; a double bed and a pull-out sofa, but only a few of them have running water, and the six of you convene in the hallway to decide what to do.

“Most of the rooms have dead bodies in,” Addy says. “So we’re crossing them off the list unless any of you guys feel like sleeping in a room with a Z.” There’s a murmur of agreement.

“Then there’s four rooms,” Warren sighs.

“I call a single!” Murphy announces, sticking his hand in the air. “And none of you are taking that from me, the _saviour_ of _humanity_.”

Warren rolls her eyes, looking to Addy. “We can share if you want?” Addy nods and Warren looks at the rest of the group. “And then…” there’s a glance between you, 10k and Doc, and you roll your eyes.

“We can share,” you tell them, nudging at 10k. He’s not saying anything, like he often does when the group isn’t talking about killing zombies, but he nods, and Doc shrugs.

“Fine by me,” he says. “We just ask that you use protection.” You groan, lighting knocking your head against the wall as Addy lets out a cackle. Even Warren’s suppressing her smile as she tells everyone to go to bed.

10k pointedly doesn’t look at you as you both head into a zombie-free room. You’ve been together in a way that isn’t dating, but isn’t friends, for about three weeks. You didn’t think you would ever be able to love someone in the short space of time you two have known each other, but there’s just something about being with another in an apocalypse – love is unavoidable. You remember Addy telling you about relationships in the world of zombies; how you will either find someone to fuck in the dark and be friends with in the light, or your everlasting, till-death-do-us-part partner. You don’t want 10k to be the former, so the latter feels more real when you look back at him, closing the door to your room.

“Sorry if you think this is awkward,” you say, unbuckling the machete from around your hips, and the then slinging off the rest of your weapons; Dao swords, katana, knives about your calf. He shrugs.

“It’s fine,” he replies. “I guess they know now, though.”

“I think they knew anyway,” you point out. “It’s not like we’re particularly secretive about it.” He nods, placing his gun on the desk, and unbuckling his belt of weapons, leaving it over the back of the chair. You snort as he pulls the chain out of his trousers, rolling your eyes.

“Do tell me,” you say. “How is that chain ever going to help you?” He smiles a small smile; dumping the rattling chain down next to his gun.

“One day, I won’t have this chain,” he tells you. “And then we’ll be in a situation where we need it, and you’ll feel really bad about thinking it’s stupid.” You laugh, slipping off your boots before walking over to him. Your fingers curl through his belt loops and he ducks his head down as you lean up, your lips pressing against each other slowly, barely there. You smile against him, pushing forward just a little bit more, and you feel the pressure back.

“I never called it stupid,” you whisper, once you’ve pulled away. “I called it unnecessary.” He grins back at you, shaking his head.

“You’ll come to regret those words when you need to chain something up.” You let out another bark of laughter, shaking your head and slipping your jacket from your shoulders.

“I’m sure I will,” you agree. “But for now, we’re having a shower, where chains are one hundred percent not needed.” You catch him swallowing, as you push down your cargo trousers you remember finding in a charity shop, almost a year before. They puddle on the ground as you step out of them, sparing him a glance and finding his jaw locked, eyes watching you.

“Take a picture,” you say, rolling your eyes, leaning down to undo the strap of small knives around your thigh. (You haven’t come across a time where you’ve needed them, nor are you sure how you would reach them if you ever did, but they’re nice to have, anyway.) “It’ll last longer.” Quickly, you pull off your t-shirt, dumping it on the bed and heading to the bathroom in your underwear. “We have to double up on the showers,” you remind him. “There isn’t enough water. Get your ass in gear.”

It’s when you reach the shower, adjusting the head, when he enters the room, pulling off his clothes. You smile at him, challenging, when you take off your underwear and stand under the spray of water.

You’ve never known until this moment how it feels to have someone else wash your hair, but you’re so glad you’ve reached this moment in your life – so utterly ecstatic to have stayed alive long enough for 10k to massage the old shampoo into your hair, and wash it out with warm water. You sigh, content, when he first kisses at your shoulder. At your feet, the soapy water pools about you, and your toes curl when his lips kiss a trail up your neck, his hands gentle on your hips.

“We should’ve done this a while ago,” you say, voice hoarse. He grins into your skin.

“What, take a shower?” You laugh, warm water pounding down on your bodies and 10k pressed up against you.

“No – well, yes, really, we should have. But this, too. The kissing, the hair washing, the-“ you let out a groan, tipping your head back as he carefully sucks on your pulse point; experimenting and testing the pressure. There’s a smile on your lips, and your hands cover his, water keeping you warm. “Shit, 10k.”

It’s not too long after that you’re straddling him in the bed, sucking on his lower lip, hands wandering, wandering, wandering, like this is going to be the last time you ever touch him. You know it won’t be – there’s something certain in the way you both refuse to die. Instead, you try to kiss him like it’s going to be a beginning; a first time, first step towards the _happily ever after_ and life after the apocalypse.

You shift further down his body, pressing a trail of kisses to his torso; along his muscles, ribs, hips.

“Jessie, fuck,” he breathes, and you stop. “What?” Quickly, you sit up, studying him for a moment; red skin, chest rising and falling. You smile, a thought warming in your mind. “What is it?” 10k leans up on his elbows, propping himself up as he frowns at you.

“I’ve decided,” you say, your voice low and quiet. “That if you’re going to be calling out my name, you’re at least going to say the right one.” He raises an eyebrow and you nod. “y/n.” 10k’s smile is your favourite thing, and he reaches up a hand to cup around your neck, tugging you down for a slow, lingering kiss.

“Tommy,” he replies. “That’s my name from before.” You smile, bright and wide and beaming.

“Tommy,” you repeat, the name tasting like sugar on your tongue. “Let’s get back to work.” You shift back down his body, and 10k flops back against the pillows, his laugh turning into a groan as he goes.


	5. families

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it gets dark. you've been warned.

The sun is beginning to set as the group drives down an old country road. Around them, fields spread out in every direction, trees as the barrier between crops and land instead of fences, and gravel tracks leading into each one. They’re nearing the end of the summer, and at night the temperature drops, leaving them shivering in the cabin of the truck. Tonight’s a little different, as the warm rays of sunshine melt into the horizon. With your head tilted back over the edge of the truck bed, the wind fluttering through your hair, Warren spots a group of survivors just inside a close by field.

She pulls the truck to a stop. “What do you think?” you can hear her ask. Your eyes are shut, relishing in the final moments of warmth, as the group agrees to give it a go and head on over. Your eyes slowly open, finding 10k’s next to you in the back of the truck, as Warren turns into the field.

Gravel kicks up until the wheels and the truck stops once again. This time, Warren climbs out, shutting the door behind her and greeting the strangers. “Hello,” she says. “We spotted your campfire from the road – is it alright if we stay here for the night?”

When the person replies, you recognise the voice, sitting bolt upright as memories flood your bones. “Of course,” a man says. “The more the merrier.” Fear fills every crevice of your body as you look over to 10k, watching you warily.

“What is it?” he asks. You slowly turn to look at the man, heading back to the campfire, and your mouth turns dry, your limbs rigid. “y/n?” he whispers, keeping your name quiet. He’s known it for almost a month now, and it’s an unspoken rule that your real names aren’t used unless they’re done so in private, or quietly for no one else to hear.

You wonder if this is the night where everyone else finds out your name, but – but it doesn’t matter. Because the safety precaution was to keep you from coming back here; to prevent anyone from finding you.

The man looks almost exactly like you remember; but his hair is greyer and the way he sits down is wearier.

“That’s my father,” you whisper to 10k. He hesitates, looking over the edge of the truck, too.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” you reply. “I’m not going to joke about this.”

“What’s the problem?” Warren asks, meandering over to the bed of the truck, a crinkle between her brows.

“That’s Jessie’s dad,” 10k explains. “Not a nice guy.” Warren frowns, looking over to where he sits by the campfire. The camper  van parked behind him looks exactly as you remember, and your eyes widen when a woman steps out, glancing briefly over to the truck before sitting down. Your mother’s hair is more silver than it is in your memories; her eyes more tired. Her pretty dresses she used to wear are long gone, dirty clothes swamping her body, and a can of beans in her hand.

“This is your family?” Warren asks. “We can keep driving if you want?” You glance over to the rest of the group, already heading over to the campfire, so excited about being warm for the night. You can’t do this to them. You can’t keep that from them.

“No,” you decide. “It’s fine. It’s alright. We’ll stay. Just, uh – don’t trust him? I left the night he killed the people we were travelling with so we could take their stuff.” Warren’s face turns tight as she nods seriously, heading over to the campfire. She talks briefly, quietly, with the rest of the team, before sitting down, herself.

“Now or never, right?” 10k asks you, and you nod.

“I suppose. I think I’d prefer never, though.” His smile is a lie and you know it as the two of you jump down from the truck.

“We have visitors!” your mother calls to whoever is in the camper van. “Come out and sit with us!” There’s a muffled reply that you don’t hear, walking over to the campfire. Your hand itches for your swords, but it’s not right – it’s not okay to pull a weapon on family, is it? Or do they still count as family when you haven’t seen them in two years?

As if he knows what you’re thinking, 10k clasps your hand in his, tugging you to take a seat at the campfire. That’s a mistake and you know it. It’s a mistake to let them see your face – your goddamn face that looks no different to how you used to, apart from how your hair is shorter and have a scabbed-over cut on your cheek.

You see it in your parents’ eyes when they recognise you, opening their mouths to say your name and you hold up a hand to stop them.

“If you call me by my birth name I will leave,” you say clearly, sitting down between 10k and Addy. “My name is Jessie with these people.” Your parents look between themselves before your father laughs.

“ _Jessie_? Where the hell did you get that from?” Your mother’s smile is confused as she starts to speak.

“y/n-“

“Stop,” you say, and your mother freezes. Your father looks amused and you wonder when the apocalypse turned him bitter. You wonder when he stopped being the man who taught you to drive at age ten, because you lived on a private road, or helped you to stand on a chair when you wanted to make dinner with him. You wonder when his laughs turned cynical, and his eyes cold and dark. Your jaw locks as you stare them down. “Just stop.” Your voice is quieter this time, a hint of pleading on the edge.

There’s silence and then Addy speaks, starting up a conversation so forced and so hard. 10k squeezes your hand and you lock onto that feeling; onto the anchor that’s keeping you from floating away into the stratosphere.

Then you watch as a young girl, hair as bright as the sun, bounces out of the camper van. She’s thin, with bags under her eyes, but with so much joy stretched across her face. You recognise Annie instantly, nine years younger than you and half your age. Her hair is tied up in a complex braid, and her bare feet tread through the grass.

“Be careful, honey,” your mother warns, as Annie dances by the fire. Your lips spread into a slow smile, watching your sister be happy and carefree. A single glance to 10k tells you that he knows who she is; that he’s happy to see her alive.

Annie stops dancing when she sees you – like she’s trying to place your face from some old photo album. You’re scratched up, with shorter hair than she’d remember, but you’re the same. Her mouth opens and shuts as Doc tells a story to Murphy and your father about the ‘good ole days’, Annie checking with your parents. You watch your mother nod.

“That’s y/n, honey,” she confirms, voice quiet and sweet. Annie turns around again, her eyes wide as saucers, before her face breaks out into a grin. She darts around the campfire, jumping into your lap and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. Happiness swells in your chest, a thousand violins playing at once for the young girl in your arms. You never want to let her go, never again.

Her body curls up in your lap, and your head bows, holding her tightly.

“I missed you,” Annie whispers into your neck.

“I missed you, too, baby,” you say back.

For a moment, it’s quiet and you’re happy. Then, your heart bursts with even more joy than you thought was possible, as James steps out of the camper van. His eyes dart around the strangers, before landing on you; landing on Annie in your lap and the tears welling in your eyes. You lift Annie into your arms, before going and joining James at the door to the camper. There, he embraces you both – the family reunion you actually wanted, waited for, with your siblings.

-

It’s well into the night and you volunteered to be on watch, mainly because you don’t trust your father, partly because James was, too. The two of you sit by the campfire, glancing around every now and again to check for zombies. Your eyes are mainly on the fire though, and just past it, the truck where your friends – _your family_ – are sleeping.

You lean your head on your brother’s shoulder, and his arm wraps around you gently.

“Two years, y/n,” he says lowly. “I thought I’d see you sooner than this.”

“I’m good at hiding,” you reply.

“I know. You always won hide and seek.” You grin at the flames.

“That’s because you never looked for me,” you tell him. “You always let me stay in the cupboard for like an hour before finding me.” He laughs alongside you, and warmth blooms in your chest. “How’s it been here?”

Quiet washes over you again and James bows his head.

“He’s losing it,” he says at last. “He’s just angry all the time. When you left, he searched for you for weeks before pronouncing you dead. Held a funeral for you and everything.” You raise your eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he said it was because a little girl couldn’t handle herself out on her own.”

“I was sixteen,” you point out. “Not a toddler.” He shrugs.

“Same thing in his eyes.”

“Why haven’t you even left yet?” you ask.

“Because Annie’s still here,” he sighs. “Same with Mum. She may put up with his bullshit but she’s not bad like he is.”

“You could leave with us, you know.” You swallow, pointedly not looking at him. “They wouldn’t mind. You could bring Annie and Mum and we could get on the road.”

“What, in that truck with the guy who has – what – _blue_ skin?” You snort.

“Yeah, it’s not a terrible idea.”

“Not terrible,” he agrees. “Just not viable. Besides, none of us know how to defend ourselves, really.”

“Never used a gun still?”

“There was one time,” he muses. “It was a life-or-death thing a few months ago. He took the gun after and swore me out in front of Annie.”

“Dickhead.”

“Yeah. But you know how to use a gun now?” You nod into his shoulder.

“I know how to use one – doesn’t mean I’m good at it, but I know _how_ to do it.” He exhales a smile, and you look up to find his eyes fixed on the truck.

“And those people, are they… are they good people?” You smile, sitting up and thinking about your family in the truck. Of Warren and her hard glares but soft heart; Addy with her skin of steel and quick retorts. Doc and the jokes, the laugh, the way he patched you up over and over again when you kept breaking your stitches after getting shot. Even Murphy and how he taught you poker on a cold night in a shitty apartment. Then 10k flutters across your mind and your smile widens; the way he says your name with such honesty; genuine and raw; his gun and his counting – his _I bet I’ll reach ten thousand before you – well no kidding, Tommy, it’s your name._

“They’re good people,” you promise, looking over to James now. “They’re the best of people.”

-

The morning goes badly.

You hug your mother goodbye, stiffly, because she’s not someone you know anymore – just a shadow of one. You don’t spare your father a glance before sweeping up your little sister in a hug, doing the same for James before climbing into the truck.

“We’ll see you around,” James says, a friendly smile on his face, as your friends slam their doors shut. “Don’t wait two years, this time.”

Your mind spins to Jessie, to the name you’ve been faking, and you wonder if now the group all know your real name, now– if you should just tell them to go by it. Is the precaution necessary anymore? You chose new names so your father couldn’t find you; so you wouldn’t have to come back to a place that made your heart hurt and your stomach flip. But you’ve been here, you’ve spent time in his proximity and nothing bad has happened, no matter how much the scar that spreads across your back throbs.

Warren says goodbye to your family, before climbing into the driver’s seat. That’s when it goes wrong.

That’s when a Z no one heard comes around the side of the camper van. That’s when it starts growling and moaning, and you’re too slow – you jump out of the bed of the truck and break out into a run but you’re _not fast enough_. It doesn’t matter that 10k makes the shot, shoots out the fucker’s brain and paints the camper van red.

It doesn’t matter because you were all too slow, and your father is staring at your mother, and you siblings are frozen in shock, and your mother – God, you _mother_ , is sinking to the ground, a bloody bite in her neck and screaming.

Your father doesn’t even blink as he raises his gun and shoots her point blank in the head.


	6. the things we do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so now we're in the darkness, we're gonna get comfy.

You suppose darkness is genetic.

There’s something inside you that’s been swirling around for years. Usually, it’s overshadowed by light; by music and dance, by gold-tinted memories and puppies that survived the zombies. More recently, 10k stands before you, a goddamn sun amongst the darkness that makes your vision hazy. He’s there, the point – the point from which you can walk away from and walk back to; mark zero, a moment in time, a person in space, where your happiness can be stored, at least for a while.

But now – now that point is shrouded in black and you don’t even see him. You don’t’ see him past the darkness in your veins; blood that your parents created, same as your bones, skin, brain. You’re made of them and their mistakes, and you feel it weighing on your chest; the pressure pushes you down, down, down.

Darkness is genetic for you, that’s all you know now. It’s a part of you; like your organs and your fingernails. It matches that of your father, and you _burn_.

In front of you, your younger sister screams, her heart in her lungs and her eyes clamped shut as if it would erase the memory playing over and over in her mind. In front of you, your older brother vomits onto the ground, retching and crying; his fists in balls and his knuckles white as snow. In front of you, your father lowers his shooting arm, the gun still smoking and his face passive.

In front of you, your mother lies, dead and bleeding; a bite mark in her neck and a gunshot wound through her head.

You join your brother and throw up.

You wish that it would rid you of the darkness, but instead the bile burns your throat and you cough up water. There’s nothing left in your body and maybe that gives the darkness more space to play; more room to run and jump and spin a deathly dance across your heart.

“Alright,” your father says, looking away from his dead wife, the heat still in her body. “Let’s get on the road – we want to make it to Colorado by night fall.”

He doesn’t even _care_ , and maybe that’s what diminishes the light in you all together. All those golden memories; fields and meadows, your sisters dancing, classical music playing from an old stereo, pink lemonade with your friends and bare feet in sunlight – they leave your body. They fall away and instead you remember the _burn_ , the pain, the scarring on your back. You remember the day your father called you a bitch, you remember the day he scraped a blade across your skin and told you that you were _weak_ to feel it. You remember his spit, his snarl, his hiss – you wonder how there was ever a time when you loved him with all of your heart, and he loved you, too.

Because that isn’t how it is anymore.

Now, rage overcomes you as he climbs into the camper van. Now, you storm forwards, pulling out your blades and people call out your name because they know what you’re going to do. They know what’s about to happen.

Jessie, y/n, over and over and you can’t tell their voices apart but they’re there, they’re there, they’re there.

It doesn’t matter if you’re Jessie anymore, it doesn’t matter if you were y/n all along – all that matters is the blood pooling on the ground and the man who caused it; who couldn’t let his wife say goodbye, who didn’t even flinch when murdering her.

It doesn’t matter because the darkness is your home and maybe it always was.

Just as you reach the door, still open, 10k appears in your line of vision.

“y/n,” he breathes. “Don’t do this – y/n, please. Please.” You shake your head; you don’t meet his eye because maybe if you do, you’ll turn around and that bastard will win, that bastard will _live_.  “Please – I’ve done this, you’ll hate yourself for it. y/n! Listen to me!”

You shoulder your way past him, his words ringing in your ears but holding no weight. It was always different, him and his father. They loved each other, even to the last breath – but you and yours? It’s a burning hatred that seethes inside your bones. It’s a one-or-the-other situation, when it comes to who is going to make it out alive.

You or him. You or your father. Him and his gun or you and your blades.

He doesn’t stand a chance.

Inside the camper, the floor is littered with rubbish, and everything is brown or grey. The floor squeaks under your boots and bed sheets are in disarray. You spot him in front of the wheel, waiting for James and Annie, waiting to drive away and pretend he didn’t just shoot his own wife. He’s so different to how you remembered him; dark hair grey, beer gut gone only due to malnourishment. You notice he’s not even wearing his goddamn wedding ring and the world is on fire because you only see red; you only see flames. You want to set this entire vehicle on fire, but there’s a chance he’ll live through that.

“Finally,” he mutters, turning to look at you. But you’re not who he expected and it’s clear on his face. He notes your blades, your knuckles white, your face schooled in a glare. He might see the gun at your hip – the one you can’t fire for the life of you – but you don’t know. It’s just red, red, red.

He says something, but you don’t know what. It’s said as a hiss, but all you hear are the words “kill me, y/n”. So you ready your blades and he must notice because he scrambles for his gun.

In the next three seconds, there are two gunshots and one movement of your swords.

His head lulls back against the window as you exit the camper van, wiping your blades clean on the grass, and climbing back into the bed of the truck. 10k is by you in an instant; hands cupping your face and mouth saying your name, over and over and over. It sounds so distant, so underwater, like there’s glass in between you and the rest of the world and you couldn’t care less.

Distantly, you hear the first growls of your father becoming a zombie – because he doesn’t, he would never deserve mercy. He would never deserve a clean death; a stab through the brain. Your lips almost curl up into a smile, almost. But you can’t bring yourself to do it, because you’re a killer now. It doesn’t matter if you’ve killed thousands of zombies, it doesn’t matter about the survivors that were threatening your life – just, your father, stabbed in the chest in his camper van, and you, being the one to do it.

Slowly, darkness fills your bones and you feel at peace with it. Maybe you belong to the darkness.

Your vision blurs though, and a pain in your side begins, like a searing hot needle on your skin, like a punch to the gut with knuckle dusters, like a gunshot-

Like a gunshot.

There’s blood and it pours like rain.

That’s when you black out.

-

You love Tommy and the sound of his voice. You love the way he twists his fingers through your hair and tells you stories even if you’ve heard them before. You love how he laughs, how his smile is a smirk, how he smokes when he’s bored and wants to remember his father in a better way than his memories alone will allow. You love the counting, the goal, the enjoyment of the zombie apocalypse; like he was born for this, which – he was. You love the belief in aliens, in the supernatural but not in God. You love the way he repeats your swears back to you, but polite – “shit” “sugar”, “fuck” “frack”.

You love him and you know that even with the bad in your bones. It swells around your body, pooling deep in your stomach, and even though all you can _see_ is your father’s lifeless eyes, rolling back in his head, all you _know_ is Tommy – is 10k. Is the boy you love with raven hair and sea eyes, who watches you fight with swords as if you’re performing ballet.

He’s there when you wake up.

Your head is in his lap, and he’s looking at you with a frown; eyebrows pinched together, lips curled downwards. His fingers run gently through your hair, and you let your eyes close for just a second longer, relishing in the feeling. When your eyes open again, you notice clouds passing you; the sky moving, and then the thrum of the engine.

You groan, trying to sit up, but 10k shushes you, pulling you back down.

“It’s alright,” he says lowly. “It’s okay. You got shot. Doc says it’ll heal; you didn’t hit anything vital or you’d already be dead.” You frown, looking up at him.

“Where are…?” Your voice trails off but he nods to your right. Carefully, you turn your head, catching sight of your siblings sitting in the bed of the truck with you. A small smile graces your face but the pain in your side begins to increase and you wince.

“We don’t have any pain meds,” 10k tells you, as you look back up at him. “You’ll live but it’s gonna hurt for a while.” You nod, he sighs. “Are you okay?”

“I got shot,” you breathe, hoarse. 10k rolls his eyes.

“Emotionally,” he adds.

“Oh.” You breathe a few times, letting your chest expand and then contract, expand, contract. You’re still breathing, you’re still alive. “Then no – yes? I think I’m okay.”

“You killed your father,” he whispers to you, and you nod. You want to say something like, _we have that in common_ , but that’s cold and harsh and you _don’t_. He killed a zombie that just looked like his father, you killed the man himself.

“I know,” you say instead, and you grit your teeth. You killed your father – but he hadn’t been that in a long time. 10k studies you for a moment longer before nodding, before looking away, before continuing to card his fingers through your hair, over and over and over.

There’s a lot of pain and you sink into it, because there’s nowhere else to go. One day, later, you’ll wonder what would have happened if you sunk into 10k; into the good and the light, rather than the darkness. You’ll wonder how it would have gone if you hadn’t killed your father – but that’s not the decision you make.

You choose death, and you choose the pain that you feel.

-

It takes a week before you can walk without holding onto someone else. Then another week before you stop having to take long, hard breaths when you’ve been standing for five minutes. Another two days before you realise what you have to do – that you’re corrupting everyone, that your darkness is spreading, that it _shouldn’t_.

You may have chosen the darkness, but you don’t want it. You don’t want the way 10k looks at you – wary, slightly afraid – you want him to smile at you again, like you’re something spectacular. You want him to tell you that it’ll be okay, without the words coming out forced. You want to be able to fight zombies by his side and almost distract him with the dance of it all.

You want that, but it’s not around and you know exactly why.

You let the darkness in and you let it run havoc on your body. You’re about to try and force it out of your body, but then 10k goes missing and there’s the sound of motorbikes, screeching off in the distance and you _know_ he’s with them.

It takes a few days to locate where he’s being held. The group watches the building from the woods; some old hardware store with the sign having fallen off. The men outside look Chinese, maybe Korean – you’re not sure, you’re not paying any attention.

There’s a glare hardened on your face and it hasn’t left for days. It’s all you know; the pain. There’s the twinge in your side and then one in your heart, where 10k used to be.

“It’s fortified,” Addy sighs. “There’s guards everywhere.”

“I don’t care,” you reply. “We’re getting in there and we’re getting him out.”

“We don’t even know where he’s being held,” your brother comments from the other end of the group, Annie sitting by his feet.

“And we don’t know how many people are inside,” Warren adds.

“I. Don’t. Care.” You grit your teeth as Doc slips his hand onto your shoulder.

“I know, kid,” he says lowly. “But you’ve got to. You have to care about these things if we’re gonna get him back.” You drag your eyes from the building and look at Doc, instead – because he _gets_ it. You know how he’s a father to 10k, you know how close they are, you know he would tear down the world just to make sure 10k is alright. He gets it; the place where 10k filled in your life is the same for him, and both of you are emptier than usual.

“Fine,” you huff. “There’s six guards outside, their guns aren’t great – we could take them out and then sneak inside.”

“Not really doing much sneaking if you’re blatantly killing people,” Addy comments. You shrug.

“Better them than me. Okay, there’s gotta be a loading door, right? We could go in through there?”

“But we still don’t know what’s inside,” Warren points out, and it feels like they’re just shooting down every idea. Do they even _care_ that 10k could be dead? That he could be hurt and waiting?

“We know that 10k is,” you reply icily. Doc’s hand squeezes your shoulder and you think about all the things you never said to 10k – to Tommy. You never told him that you loved him, because you thought it was clear; because it’s so blindingly obvious. You never said the actual words. You never told him about how you got each of the scars that litter your body; never told him about the time you dyed your hair pink, or broke into a liquor store with your friends at fifteen and made it out without being caught. You haven’t told him a lot of things, even in the dark when storytelling is the best, because you can’t see the expression, just the words.

“Why don’t we just approach the front gate?” Murphy asks loudly, and you huff, slinking away to the back of the group. Whilst they argue amongst themselves, 10k could be dying. You’re _not_ going to let that happen.

So you act on impulse, because there’s no part of you that will let 10k go, and there’s a darkness in you that shrouds everything else. You sneak away from the group and they don’t notice – but maybe they do when you’re walking across the parking lot of the store a few minutes later, machete in one hand, gun in the other.

“Hey, stop there,” one of the guards order. They have bandannas covering the lower half of their faces, and tattoos litter their arms. When you don’t stop walking, they raise their guns. “Stop!”

You lift your gun, and by the grace of God you shoot straight. You take out three with the bullets, before ducking over to the others and swiping the blade straight through them, over and over until they’re all down on the floor. You take a breath, feeling one step closer to 10k, and keep going.

Inside, there are people just about everywhere. They heard the gunshots, obviously, but not all of them are paying attention and it’s easy to fight your way through when there’s a humming in your bones, like a GPS on how to find 10k. You just know; and to get there you have to kill so you do it and you keep going even when your gun has run out of ammunition, and your machete is stuck in a man’s head. You pull out your katana and go back to work, not focusing on the technicalities, like where your centre of gravity is, or if they’re coming back as zombies or just staying down.

You keep going.

You keep fighting.

You keep killing. Because 10k _needs_ you to.

The other end of the store leads to the warehouse where they would have kept stock back pre-Z. You slip through, finding it mostly empty. Everything is tinged with blue; white light filtering through high windows every now and again, and boxes stored at the walls. You drip blood on the floor where you walk, leaving scuffed red footprints where the adrenaline begins to fade.

It’s not over yet, so you keep going.

You search the warehouse; going through every door and looking around every corner. There’s growling wherever you walk; Zs coming back from where you just killed people, and those that are chained to the walls, all over. You pike each one so you know if you’ve been down that corridor amongst the labyrinth of the building. Surely, your friends will be nearby, right? Surely they’ve made it this far.

But you don’t stop to wait, just keep checking the face of every Z, in case it’s 10k’s, before stabbing your katana straight through it and continuing on.

Then you find a locked door. Everything worth finding is always hidden behind locked doors, so you look around, searching for a key, for a battering ram, anything.

“Hey!” There’s a voice and you spin around, finding a man pointing a gun at you. He’s not far away, so you don’t give him the chance to pull the trigger and instead run and slide along the floor; hacking out his ankle and sending him sprawling. Harshly, you drive your sword into his head, and pick up the gun that he dropped.

You shoot the lock on the door twice before you’re able to get inside the next room.

Of course he’s there, tied to the wall. Of course 10k’s eyes are alert, looking around the room, and there’s a small shard of glass from a nearby broken window in his hand, and one of the ropes that ties his hands up is half way shredded.

Relief fills your body and you dart over to him, ignoring everything else in the room; just 10k, just 10k, just 10k.

He grins at the sight of you, and before you catch the smile fading as he takes in the blood, you press your lips to his soundly, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. Your tongue runs along the seam of his lips, and his mouth opens, just slightly, just enough.

You love him, you love him-

“I love you,” you whisper, pulling away by only a centimetre.

“I love you, too,” he replies, voice hoarse and raw. “Can you untie me now?” You let out a bark of laughter, reaching up and slicing your blade through the ropes. 10k drops slightly, from where he was propped up against the wall, and you smile.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you tell him, thumb running gently over the bruises that litter his face. Black, purple, blue, dotted over dirty pale skin.

“You’ll never lose me,” he says into your neck, pulling you into an embrace. His voice is muffled by your hair but it feels like a promise. “Never.”


	7. alone

You didn’t expect to be on your own again. Not after getting 10k back, that is.

But here you are, scuffing your feet against the dirt and wandering alone through a town; a backpack over your shoulders with minimal provisions inside, and your blades slung around your body. Your machete still feels odd at your side, after it was stabbed through a strangers head. Your gun feels heavy on your other hip, so unfamiliar and cold. You’re still not a good shot, but it doesn’t matter.

Like, now.

“Elephants and giraffes,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the group of six or so zombies that are ambling towards you. Your gun doesn’t even cross your mind as you pull out your katana, cutting through each one of them like they’re butter. It’s easy, simple - repetitive motions that bore you.

You miss dancing with the zombies, twirling blades around your fingers, looking back and finding 10k watching you with a gleam in his eye, like he’s never seen zombies be killed in such beautiful ways.

-

You left a day or so after getting 10k back. It was a conscious decision; you said you were going to check out a store, and then didn’t. Instead, you slipped around the back and ran. You ran and you ran and you ran; sprinting away from the demons that followed you.

Or maybe the demons are a part of you, because they’re why you left: the darkness was overwhelming inside of you.

As 10k rested in the bed of the truck just after getting him back, and Warren calmly explained to you how stupid your actions had been at the hardware store, you heard Addy. You heard her talking to 10k, explaining how you got him out.

“She cut through them like they were nothing,” she said, a hint of awe in her voice. “Seriously, she just killed them _all_. We came through after her, and the only ones on their feet were Zs. There must have been fifty men, at least.”

You added that number onto your total – nine thousand, five hundred and seventy – before nodding and pretending to listen to Warren’s lecture.

But it got you thinking – you killed fifty survivors, in a world where ninety percent of the population were dead. And you did that for one boy; for one person you’ve known for a matter of months. Would you have done that for anyone else? For Addy? For Doc? For your siblings?

You don’t know, because you did it for _10k_ , not them. You did it for the boy with the smirk and the guns; with hair that sticks up in all directions and a bandana that he wears around his head or his wrist. You did it for the boy you love, but you _killed so many_.

Words raced through your head; words your father used to tell you about being a killer, about guns and death and fighting. Then 10k’s words - _guns don’t do the killing. The people behind them do, in the same way that the person holding the sword does_. You’re a killer, you’re a killer, you’re a killer.

You think of what you said - _I’m not a killer, 10k. I’m not. I won’t be_ – and you think of the way the lie spilled from your lips.

You’re a killer and you’re full of darkness and you told him that, the sky dark above you. He couldn’t sleep with the pain, and you were lying by his side in the truck bed, your head on his chest and his arms wrapped around your body.

“You’re not,” he whispered back, but it felt like a lie. You swallowed, and shut your eyes.

“I am,” you told him. “But it’s okay that I am.” You fought his lie with one of your own and you both stopped talking, eventually slipping off into sleep. You woke early in the morning and untangled yourself from his arms. Addy looked over from where she was on watch, but neither of you spoke. You wondered if she could tell what thoughts were crossing your mind, but she couldn’t have.

She couldn’t have.

Instead, you waited for everyone to rise, before pointing over to a store that they hadn’t checked yet. “I’m gonna go take a look around,” you said, climbing down from the truck. No one really replied and you went off on your own, turning the corner with no one looking and then breaking out into a run that pained your side and made your heart beat like a drum in your chest. You ran until you felt the need to throw up, and then you did something you hadn’t done in a while:

You climbed.

You climbed up the side of a building; jumping from window to fire escape to drain pipe. Your fingers hurt from how hard they gripped at the bricks, and your stomach lurched whenever you looked down. Up on top of a building, you sat, and you tried to feel the wind wash over your body, and pull away the parasites of darkness and pain that had attached themselves to you. Instead, you felt the wind, but the darkness stayed, at home in your body.

You watched them search for you; clamped your teeth down on your tongue to stop yourself from calling out, and then stood, climbing down the other side of the building and running away again. You’d see them someday, you were sure – just not when your mind was enslaved by bad thoughts, not when your fingers itched to pull out your blades and kill, kill, kill.

Just not when you couldn’t stand the _thought_ of yourself being in their vicinity, in case it got them hurt.

-

Being alone is strange. It’s not like a familiar jacket; slipping your arms through the sleeves and looking at yourself in the mirror, remembering how you used to wear it all the time. Instead, it feels like tugging on shoes that don’t fit you, but had at one point so long ago. Your feet ache, and you end up walking bare foot, feeling the gravel shred your soles.

There’s this feeling of longing in your chest; a wanting for the family you left behind. But you know you can’t turn back – not until you’re okay. Not until you don’t feel like a killer; until you think you can look 10k in the eye again, and not see someone who doesn’t know you.

Two days on your own and you meet a stranger. Her hair is tied back and she walks with a limp. You see her trying to hide as you walk along the road, dead centre across the painted white marks. She shuffles behind a car and you stop in your tracks, watching curiously. At first, you’re not sure if she’s a zombie – but the way she peeks through the glass makes you smile, makes you know that she’s human.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say aloud, tilting your head at the girl. After a beat, she replies, ducked behind the car.

“That’s what someone who’s going to hurt me would say.”

“ _Or_ , someone who’s _not_ going to hurt you,” you point out in return.

There’s a hesitation, a breath you don’t realise you’re holding, and then: “so it’s like a fifty-fifty chance then?” You snort and she looks around the car.

“Something like that.” She hobbles out, eyeing you carefully as she approaches. You give her a once over – bronze skin, dark hair, a gash on her leg and only a knife at her hip. “You’d be a pretty useless kill,” you shrug. “You’ve got literally nothing to steal.” The girl rolls her eyes.

“Thanks,” she drawls. “That’s what I like to hear.” You shrug.

“At least I’m not telling you to give me your stuff.” She nods her agreement before looking away, like she’s scanning the area.

“Cassidy,” she says, sticking her hand out. You shake, mentally picking a name.

“Clark.” You look down at the blood that pours steadily from her leg. “Do you need any help, or?” She looks down, too, shaking her leg with a wince for good measure.

“I was planning on heading to the Rock Hotel,” she tells you. “It’ll probably have running water. You can come if you want?” You nod – you have nothing better to do, and you already miss talking to people. You sling one of Cassidy’s arms around your shoulder and she leans on you, limping along by your side.

You talk about the mundane things; the sky, the weather, the animals, the zombies – not anything real. You don’t ask how long she’s been on her own, if she has any family, how old she is, and she does you the same courtesy.

At the hotel, you take out the zombies that are in your way (nine thousand, six hundred and five) and together you make it into a room, shutting the door behind you. You help Cassidy to wash the blood away, before wrapping her leg with whatever bandages you had in your backpack.

As you fall asleep next to her in the double bed, you think of 10k – where he could be right now, how he might be feeling. You ache for him in a way you didn’t realise you could; stronger than when you knew he was missing. Instead, it’s a way in which you know _you’re_ the reason you’re not with him, not because of some asshole third party. You caused this. You separated yourself from him.

You wonder if he aches for you like you ache for him – you hope he doesn’t. You would never wish this pain on him.

-

In the morning, you wake up to a scream and a zombie snacking on your new friend. For one horrified second, you watch as the blood splatters your face and her eyes fill with agony. Then you reach for your katana and stab both Cassidy and the zombie in the head with one swoop.

Quickly, you get dressed, you glance mournfully at the bandage – now wasted – and you leave, continuing your journey.

-

Bad things happen over the next two weeks and you’re chalking it up to karma. Karma that you abandoned your family, karma for killing your father, for killing those people, karma for not helping 10k heal.

First, five days after you leave, you dump your backpack on a counter in an empty public bathroom, and it’s stolen by the time you’ve flushed the toilet. You run outside and see no one.

Then, seven days after you leave, you’re hiding out in a house when a young couple break in. They think you’re a zombie at first (even though you look nothing like Murphy and his undead herd), and it takes you screaming for them to stop trying to stab you. You leave soon after.

Ten days after you left and you’re practically starving, lying on the side of the road, propped up against an old corner shop. You bet that if a zombie were to come along, you’d probably let it eat you. Alas, there are no zombies nearby and you waste much of the day, staring into space and napping.

Part of you hopes that you won’t wake up again.

The next day some strangers feed you, and they’re swaying where they stand, cigarettes between their fingers. It’s amazing, you think. Somehow even stoners survive the apocalypse and they don’t even try – and, even whilst the world is going up in flames, they have found the supplies to bake pot brownies.

You eat seven and you’re head is thumping and dizzy for the rest of the day. You don’t really care though, because once it wears off, so do the munchies, and you take some of their food when you leave before the sun rises.

You meet a lot of survivors – a gang of asshole bikers who ask you for sex, a couple of kids screaming as they run out of an apartment complex, zombies on their tail (you pike the zombies and ask where the kids’ parents are – they point to the dead bodies and the blood on your sword). There’s a man and you can see more weapons than skin but he takes the children off of your hands and tells you there’s a survivor camp only a few clicks up the road.

You consider going with him, but you have a feeling that it won’t help you – that you still have hate in your heart and you don’t know how to cope with it, only that you can’t pass it on to the innocent children.

You steal cars and bikes and, at one point, a lorry you can’t figure out how to drive properly, and you go in the same direction your group are – towards California. You just go the long route; take the scenic roads and pretend you don’t cry at night in the silence.

Your dreams are filled with your father’s eyes rolling back in his head, and the faces of the people you killed to get 10k back.

You miss 10k more than anything; miss the way he snorts at your bad jokes and tells you stories, and kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. It’s your own fault that he’s not with you, not kissing you, not holding you with a tight grip like you might get away (even though you both know that you would never try, until now that is), not telling you he loves you, not fighting by your side in absolute sync and unity, because you don’t need to check that the other’s okay because you _know_ that there’s no chance that they’re not.

You wonder, deep down, if the darkness is for him – if it comes with the territory of love. If you’d do terrible things time and time again, because it’s _him_. Because it’s 10k.

After two and a half weeks away, you start to think that you’re right.

You start to think that maybe you could figure this out – maybe there’s a way to explain to him and not have him hate you. Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe he would forgive you. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

There’s still darkness but there’s a light of hope that says that he loves you, too. There’s a shining ray through the black that tells you that forgiveness comes with love. A beam of faith, and you swallow, because your darkness isn’t gone like you wanted it to be, but 10k might just love you enough to look past that – to not see you as a stranger.

The fact that you reach this conclusion makes it even worse when you’re sleeping in the back of a car, and you’re pulled out of it by rough hands that knock your head against the car door until you drift off into a blackness darker than your heart.


	8. devils

You’ve never been tortured before but there’s a first time for everything.

You’re not sure what they want out of you – not really. They didn’t ask many questions, didn’t hit you for giving the wrong answer – they hit you for saying anything at all. You suppose they’re doing this just out of boredom; just because it might be fun for their sick, twisted minds. That’s worse to you than them having a reason to hurt you.

When you spit out blood, they hit you. When you cough or huff or sigh or let tears slip down your face, already wet with blood, they let you feel the palms of their hands, the knuckles of their fists, the end of a bat.

Your skin is criss-crossed with shallow cuts, red upon red upon red.

You’re at nine thousand, eight hundred and seventeen kills and you’re sick of blood. You hate that you only dislike it when it starts to become yours.

You’re sure you’ve been there for days, slipping in and out of sleep when the assholes aren’t around – but it’s difficult to keep dreaming when the nightmares are as harrowing as when you’re awake. Around the room, other people are chained by their hands to the wall above them, just like you are. You have to switch between standing for hours and your legs turning numb, and letting yourself dangle; the cuffs cutting into your hands.

Dried trickles of blood decorate your arms; your hair sticks to it and you can smell it more than you can see it.

Your cellmates aren’t chatty and neither are you; all conserving energy for whenever the masked men come back and choose a random target. You’re the newest; you can take the most beatings.

On the second night you’re there, the person next to you dies; their ribs cracked and piercing places they shouldn’t. You wake up to them as a zombie; rapidly breaking their wrists to get out of their chains. Zombies don’t have a pain tolerance – that part of their brain switches off after death. It’s just about the feeding; doing anything they can to get to their food, and you watch aghast in horror, as the bones crack and snap, blood spurting as the Z pulls away from the wall.

You can’t tell if you’re lucky or not that it doesn’t kill you; that the torturers come in at that moment and shoot it dead.

It takes twelve hours before anyone removes the dead body from the floor right in front of you, and in that time you’ve thrown up twice over the smell. You wonder how you had any food inside you, still.

On the fourth day, the torturers wander in; drinks in their hands and a swing in their step – like it’s a good day for them, like they’re about to participate in a favoured past time. You glare with all of your minimal energy at them as they twirl their knives around their fingers and look around at each of their victims.

They choose the woman opposite; her body covered in her own blood and her hair cut at random lengths where they chop it off. You would wonder why she cries over her hair when they’re also slicing at her arms – but you realise that it’s all the same eventually. She’s been there long enough that anything is pain; any action is a bad one, any words are bad words. They cut off a clump of hair, right at the scalp and she sobs, head bowed to her chest. A man dangles it in front of her before dropping it into the pool of blood by her feet. She stares at it, translucent tears mixing with red and you swallow, biting down on your tongue.

The woman mutters something, and the men laugh.

“What was that?” one asks, tilting up her chin with the point of a knife – your blood boils as you recognise it as one of your own. The bastard. The woman glares, putting all of her energy into her hate, before she speaks again, her voice raw and hoarse.

“Fuck. You.” She spits blood into the closest man’s face, and he roars with anger, driving the knife into her shoulder as she screams. Your eyes clamp shut and you can hear the agony in her cry. You tug at your chains, just to focus on something else; to focus on the pain in your wrists rather than that of the woman.

Maybe you’re not sick of blood because it’s your own – maybe you’re sick of blood because it’s being shed out of cruel joy, not necessity.

The men continue to wander about the room; stopping by different people and asking them questions about their pain. Do they like it? Is there enough? Would this hurt? Would that?

You watch as one man slices his knife lightly down the centre of a man’s chest, blood trickling out and following the blade down. You watch another man get punched in the face, his skin black and blue, swollen beyond recognition.

Then one stops in front of you. He’s holding your knife – a small blade sharpened to perfection. You took it from a dead family over a year ago; you cut open cans of food, stabbed it into zombie brains, drew in the dirt with it. It’s never once cut into your own skin and you loathe the fact that it now will.

“How has your day been?” His voice is amused and you glare in return, your mouth staying firmly shut. “Oh, no answer today?” He lifts the knife to your wrist, high up above you, and you can tell he’s smiling, even if the mask covers his face. It’s decorative; bright colours and patterns that should symbolise something more festive than torture.

But here you are and here he is and he’s dragging the blade down your arm, top to bottom and you’re sobbing quietly, refusing to scream, refusing to call out.

To some extent, this is your fault and you know it. You should have never left the group, never run away from them like that. You abandoned your brother, your sister, your _family._ You abandoned 10k and you can’t imagine how he would feel to find out that you died at the hands of torture; with days upon days of pain given with joy, and water only fed to you through tiny sips.

Your sob comes out as a whine. Your teeth grit and the man laughs, moving the blade to the other arm.

You wonder if he’ll ever find out – if 10k will ever find you or if they’ll just assume that you left in cold-blood. Are they already in California? Is there a cure being made for zombie-ism, or are they all dead? You could have been with them during your last moments; could have shared in that with them, rather than doing it on your own in a dark, dank cellar with no light other than a single, flickering bulb in the centre of the ceiling.

Or maybe you could have saved them – maybe you could have been the reason they lived. Maybe they’re all Zs now, and that’s on you, because you weren’t there to help and stand by their sides – you weren’t there because you were scared and you _ran_.

They could be dead because of you.

Murphy, the saviour of humanity, could be _dead_ because you weren’t around to protect him like the others. Because you weren’t covering him, because you weren’t on watch, because you weren’t there beside 10k – but instead out on your own eating weed brownies and _thinking_ about Doc liking them, rather than being with him.

Doc could be dead because of you and your mistakes; because he was always thought he was going to live forever and acted like it. And Warren – Warren could be gone. Warren could be a zombie; could join the people she used to love and have a bullet through the brain instead of being with those that love her now.

Addy makes your heart hurt; Addy, Addy, Addy could be _dead_.

The word rings in your ears. Addy. James. Annie. They could be dead and it’s your fault because you left them. You ran and now they could have bullets in their brains. Maybe they made it to California, or maybe they straight up died because the zombie virus infects everyone eventually.

Maybe 10k is dead because of you.

You cry harder; tears rolling down your face a mile a minute and your arms are just numb – you don’t feel your own blade running down them anymore, just the hurt in your chest, behind the cuts and bruises and simply a damaged heart that thumps off-beat.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, as a new wave of tears rolls over your body. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The man with the knife laughs but you don’t hear him – just 10k’s voice ringing around your head: _you shouldn’t swear, y/n._

You promise that you’ll never swear again if you just make it back to him.

-

It starts with gunshots. They’re in the distance; muffled by brick walls and the screams of men falling. You glance around the room; everyone’s waking up from their fitful sleeps, hearing the echoes of pain throughout the building.

“Are we getting saved?” someone asks. They’re newer than you, two prisoners down to the left. You can’t see them but they were brought in early the day before. The masked men had fun with that one; he’s a screamer and they laughed viciously at every reaction to every cut.

No one responds to him; no one has the energy. There’s just silence and waiting – the water dripping from the ceiling, _drip, drip, drip_ , and the yellow light swinging around on the cord.

It’s not long before the door is slammed open and the masked men come running in. Some have their faces covered, others don’t, but all look angry, and – for the first time – afraid. You’ve never seen fear like this on their faces, but you’ve never seen their faces either. Whatever’s coming for them is brutal and deadly, you know it.

The men fill the room – maybe twenty of them packed in and for the first time they’re paying no attention to you or the prisoners. Now it’s their turn to get hurt, to be scared. The door’s shut and a few people press against it. The gunfire stops; a brief pause in the massacre.

“Did you see what it was?” one asks, looking around wildly.

“The fucking devil,” another replies.

“Ready your guns. When it enters, we shoot.”

“Like we’ll get it first,” someone else scoffs. Then there’s silence – they hush each other, waiting for the gunman to arrive. You hear the footsteps, one after another, slow and deliberate. The devil wants to play and you almost smile over them getting their punishment for the pain they’ve caused. Hell – you _would_ smile if you had it in you.

Then there’s suddenly bullets shooting through the door. The four men holding it go down, and you recognise the sound of a rifle – it feels strange in your bones to recognise guns after so long of avoiding them. There’s cries again, but the gunshots stop. You recognise the game – the waiting, the tactic.

People are shoved forward to go and kill the devil himself, and they’re opening the door, one lined up behind the other. The second a man steps out he’s shot down. And so it goes. The men are killed, one after another – until there’s only a few left in the room amongst the piled up bodies; hands shaking on their guns that are pointed at the doorway.

You watch the fear cross their faces, the panic and the bargaining. There’s no time to think, because the figure steps around the doorway and four men collapse after only a second of loud gunfire. Your eyes are slammed shut at the sound, but you open them slowly as the last man’s hand is shot – gun flying out of his grip. He screams, reaching for his knife – your knife, and you boil inside.

You look at the figure, the devil incarnate, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you actually smile.

He glances at you, pulls the familiar smirk that you recognise so well, and points the gun at the quivering man.

“I missed you, too, y/n,” 10k says, pulling the trigger. The man falls to the floor and you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Immediately, there’s a switch in him and 10k drops his gun, rushing to your side. He takes you in, as if for the first time; the blood, the welts, the pain, and reaches for your shackles, frowning.

“The… key…” you breathe, your voice cracked and broken. He nods, rustling through the men’s pockets until he finds them. The second you’re unlocked you fall; your legs giving way. But, so predictably, so perfectly, 10k catches you and you’re lowered carefully to the ground.

Smiling cracks your lips but you do it anyway. 10k brushes the new drops of blood away from your skin and smiles something so relieved, so happy, as he holds you. For the first time, he does it delicately, because for the first time, you _are_ fragile. You are not the person who kissed him roughly in the bathroom whilst looking for water, nor are you the one to undress in front of him and straddle his hips in a motel bedroom.

You’re the person who has been standing for days, been beaten and broken down past the point of return, and wants to fall into a sleep that you’ll never wake up from. And silently, intuitively, 10k _knows_ that.

You love him so much.

He presses his lips to your temple – the one area of your face that still looks like the original colour of your skin, and holds you tight, close.

“I love you,” he whispers quietly, like a prayer and a promise all at once. “Please, y/n, please don’t leave again.” You nod, trying to swallow back tears but your mouth is dry and the tears flood anyway. You cry and you cry and you cry, and 10k holds you through all of the shaking.

“I won’t,” you promise, so quiet you’re sure he didn’t hear. You know that you’ll never leave his side again, because you belong there. You belong with 10k and your family, you belong with other people having your back, and teaching you to fight in ways you haven’t tried before. You belong with storytellers and those who are just trying to save the world.

You belong with them.

There are more footsteps and you look up as 10k turns to the door, reaching for his gun. He places it back down when Warren steps over the bodies and into the room, staring at the chaos with both awe and fear. The rest of the group follows behind her and you’ve never been so happy.

“You’re a one man army, kid,” Doc mutters, eyes wide. 10k holds out the keys, and Warren takes them, moving immediately to the closest prisoner. One by one they’re freed, and you just press your head into 10k’s shoulder, as hard as you can bear.

Addy crouches down in front of you, her jaw tightening as she takes in the fresh blood and new scars. Your friend gently takes your hand and forces a smile.

“I’m so happy we found you,” she says, the most earnest she’s ever sounded. “10k fought his way through all by himself, Jess – uh, y/n. The only other time I’ve seen this many dead bodies is when you went searching for him.” You look up at 10k – at the man who was thought to be the devil – searching for confirmation.

He nods tightly, holding you closer. He would kill for you in the same way you would kill for him and it makes your heart clench inside your chest.

“I know you think you’re a monster,” 10k tells you quietly, and you hate how well he knows you, but love it at the same time. “But it’s okay. I’m a monster, too. I hit ten thousand today. We can ride out the darkness together.”

You smile, you smile, you smile.

You’re in a dingy cellar that doubles as a torture chamber, surrounded by corpses and broken bodies, but, inexplicably, you find your home.


	9. elephants and giraffes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its over lads. thanks for reading this angst.

The world is bright for you. Your world has 10k in it.

Of course your body still aches and sometimes even breathing is difficult because your chest doesn’t want to expand enough to suck in the oxygen. Sometimes, as you’re tossing and turning in your sleep, your head banging against the metal of the truck; 10k’s arm tight around your waist to stop you from hurting yourself in your nightmares, your stitches will come undone and blood will slowly seep out onto your skin. Sometimes, you cry and you cry and you cry but you can’t pin point the reason why. Sometimes, you’ll stare off into space, into memories and darkness and shadows amongst the light of day.

But, at the same time, you have Addy’s hand closed around yours, as she breathes slowly and deeply by your side. You have Doc, each and every morning inspecting your bandages and open wounds, and carefully sewing your body back up; making you a little less broken with each stitch. You have Warren, drying your tears and telling you the best of her memories – of the men she used to love, the life she used to live, the moments with her family out on the road in the middle of the apocalypse. You have 10k, too, his hand in yours, anchoring you to reality and bringing you back from the edge; telling you about his life before the world ended, and how he plans for it to go when the world is put back together again.

You also have Murphy – but he only helps when he’s being an asshole, and you start to think that even if you’re bad, he’s probably worse.

-

You ask where your siblings are before you even leave the building; 10k carrying you through the piles of the dead that he created himself.

“They joined a survivor camp,” Addy says, walking along next to you. “Annie’s too little to be out in the apocalypse – she can’t look after herself.” You agree and it was insane that she was ever out there in the first place; that she was never protected. You’re glad your brother and sister are safe, but you can’t express it – can’t smile like you want to because it hurts to even do that.

Later, on that first night away from the pain, your legs aching and your body all put back together again by Doc’s steady hands, 10k holds you in his arms and promises you a future, and a world where you’re together. You cry, you tell him about the darkness, and he sits through it all, one hand stroking at your dirty hair, and the other wrapped around you.

“It’s okay,” he promises. “Or it will be. I know you think you’re something awful – but so am I, y/n. We match. We can do this together.” He swears it to you, over and over and over, through the night and the day – through the moments where you watch from the truck as your friends take on zombies, in the times when people hold your group at gunpoint and yell for you to come from the truck, so you hobble out, your stitches threatening to pop open, and their hollow laughs in your ears. He promises it to you until his throat is dry; swears a life that you can share, and a world without monsters, just you and him and your family.

On the way out of the building you were kept in, Doc and Addy turn back, and only when you’re situated in the truck do they reappear again. They hold out swords for you; all sheathed in familiar leather that you missed being pressed up against your side. Addy slides your katana and machete down next to you, and Doc hands over the Dao swords. When you pull them out, they glint in the light of the dying sun, and the first of a new batch of tears begin to slip down your face. 10k pulls you closer, his lips in your hair.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “You’ll be dancing again, soon.” You don’t remember telling him that fighting was dancing, and you heard music in the way the blades whistled through the air, but he knows, because 10k has known you instinctively from the first day you met.

Warren tells jokes and forces the mood to lighten, inch by inch, out on the road. “New rule,” she announces on the drive away. “Killing humans is only allowed after a group-wide vote, and you have to have the majority to go through with it.” Your friends laugh and you would too if you weren’t so tired, so you sleep instead, the feeling of a smile trying to break through imprinted on your skin.

-

Slowly, you get better. It takes time; takes effort to stand and learn how to breathe without hurting yourself. Takes time to figure out the motions of fighting and living and laughing; to let your wounds heal and your body feel new and less broken than before. At night, in the truck bed, 10k traces your scars with his fingertips, just like you do to him, and you tell each other stories. You tell him about Cassidy, about the road and the sky and the alone. You tell him about the stoners and their brownies (you tell, Doc, too), and you say about the world being different without him in it.

He tells you of looking and searching and missing; tells you of the people they met, asking if they’d seen you, and then the ones who actually had – who pointed them in directions that led to you, to the old fortified base where they found you. He tells you of how it felt to kill, and you tell him that you understand, because you do. You understand each other perfectly; and there is no caution in your gaze, no fear of the differences between you, but trust and love and love and love.

You get better, and it doesn’t hurt as much.

Addy tells you of a boy she used to know; of Mack and his jokes. She tells you of how they met, in a hockey stadium on the first night of the apocalypse; of how he was playing for the opposing team and she was screaming at him from the side lines that he pulled a foul, but there they were, only minutes after the world went to shit, hand in hand, running through streets and taking down zombies.

Addy sits with you when no one else is; when they’re all busy and you can’t find the energy to move. She sits with you and tells you that she loves you, because she does, and you love her, and her fingers intertwine with yours.

“Best friends,” she tells you one day, the sun high in the sky and the others checking out a store. “That’s what we are.” You grin at her – it doesn’t hurt to do so anymore, just feels right. It had been missing for so long; the feeling of happiness, but you find it again in the people you care about, with the road and the stars and the sun high above you.

“Who was your best friend before me?” you ask, just to keep the conversation going.

“Mack,” she replies. “I loved him, of course he was my best friend. Who was yours?” You shrug, trying to think back to a time before the apocalypse; before the world starting hurting you over and over.

“If we’re not including my siblings,” you say slowly, glancing up at the clouds. “Then Jane.”

“Jane?”

“She was my best friend in the world, all my life,” you tell her. “On the first day, we passed her house as we drove out of town – I could see her through the window, completely zombified with her parents.”

“Sucks,” Addy says. You nod. It does suck. But it doesn’t hurt you anymore, to think of her gone like that. There’s no stab of pain, just is.

-

When it rains, it pours, and you all crush inside the truck, streaky windows and grey skies. You sit in the front, next to Murphy, with Warren driving on his other side, and he tries to teach you a card game that you’ve never played before.

“It’s called Bullshit,” he tells you.

“That’s really the name?” you ask with a frown. He shrugs.

“I’ve heard it being called Watermelon,” he admits.

“Can we call it that, then?” Murphy looks at you carefully for a moment, freezing his hands from dealing out the cards.

“Since when have _you_ been against swearing?” he questions. “You’re practically a sailor.” You shrug, thinking briefly back to your promise as you sat through hell, waiting for the devil to come and save you.

“Call me a nun, now,” you reply and he rolls his eyes.

“Think you need a be a virgin for that,” he points out, handing you the rest of your cards. He mutters as he goes, “not swearing, what’s that about?”

“You have a potty mouth,” Warren agrees, glancing over. “What happened to it?” You finger through your cards, trying to remember the rules that Murphy outlined for you.

“I made a promise to myself in there,” you admit after a beat. It feels like the car goes silent, all knowing where you’re talking about. “If I made it back to you guys, I wouldn’t swear anymore.”

“Really?” Addy asks, and you glance back. It’s a lie, you guess, and as you meet 10k’s eyes, you know that he knows it, too. It was about making it back to _him_ , and he smiles, just a little, because he understands.

“Yeah,” you say, swallowing and turning back to Murphy. “We can call it Bullsugar if you want?”

-

Then there’s a day, after you leave hell, where the sun is bright and the moment is good. Your friends are laughing all around you in the truck, there’s still plenty of supplies to go around and Doc is trying to explain how he once got high with a Z, and you’re not believing it in the slightest, wedged in between him and 10k.

Your bones don’t ache like they used to, and your cuts are neatly scabbed over, healing slowly and simply decorating your skin in red rather than smothering it.

The group stops for lunch at the side of the road, Warren going to the truck bed and trying to find some supplies to hand out, and everyone stretches outside of the vehicle. You raise your arms above your head, feeling your bones click into place, and there isn’t pain anymore – not really. There’s a wince every now and again but nothing damaging, nothing that scares you or reminds you of the past and the darkness.

There is light ahead and you feel it in your veins.

You take a sip of water, before adjusting the straps that hold your blades, when your eyes catch on the herd of zombies, maybe twenty strong, ambling down the road.

“Guys,” you say, “elephants and giraffes.” Your friends look past you, to the Zs, as you place your water back in the truck.

“Who’s got ammo?” Warren asks, glancing around. She’s not even wearing her gun since she ran out.

“I’ve been out for days,” Doc sighs.

“I’m empty,” 10k agrees.

“Knives it is,” Addy huffs, pushing herself away from the truck. You slide your Dao blades out from its sheath and swing them slowly about your hands. You haven’t fought with them in a long time; haven’t felt the stretch of your limbs, and the way they slice through the dead skin so smoothly.

“y/n,” Warren says, looking at you carefully. “Are you sure you’re up for it?” You smile, glancing back at the herd.

“I miss dancing,” you shrug, turning to the zombies at hand.

“She’s gonna get herself killed,” Doc drawls, and you hear the sound of 10k’s boots hitting the ground as he jumps down from the truck bed.

“She won’t,” he replies. “I’ve got her back.” He stands next to you, knife in one hand and catapult sticking out of his back pocket. You smile up at him, as Addy stands by your other side, raising her metal baseball bat with spikes at the end.

“Same,” she agrees. “I’ve got you.” Warren unsheathes her machete and nods as Doc swings his crowbar about. Murphy climbs back into the car, rolling his eyes.

You glance up at 10k, and he smiles at you, a mixture of a smirk and a grin, before he ducks down, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Go get ‘em,” he says lowly, and you lead the group forward, Dao blades twirling around your fingers. They land themselves in the eyes of the first zombies, and you push them forwards, into the brains before shrugging the bodies off the swords.

Immediately, you sink into the motions. It’s simple in your mind, like your heart beat, as you fight against the Zs – your body and the blades are one; three parts to the same weapon, and the zombies don’t stand a chance. One after another, they receive mercy, falling to the ground in your wake. Your family and you fight and fight and fight, like you were born to do it.

Warren, with her National Guard training; her machete and her glare, and Doc with his meds and his laugh – his crow bar and the fun of it all, fight by your side. Addy is ruthless and violent, with jerky motions and eyes watching the Zs crumple, and 10k is precise and accurate with every movement he makes. With them, you dance like it’s a part of you; your hair flies about your face and your swords match every movement.

At the end, you stand amongst the corpses and you grin, chest heaving.

“It’s puppies and kittens,” Warren tells you, and you let out a surprised bark of laughter, clambering over the bodies to get back to the truck.

“I prefer elephants and giraffes,” you reply. “But we can agree to disagree.”

-

The world is bright around you; 10k’s hand clasped in yours and Addy telling a joke but stopping to laugh half way through. The world is bright, bright, bright, and you sit in the bed of a truck, headed down a long, empty and winding road, headed to California.

**Author's Note:**

> lads, thank u for reading
> 
> comments and kudos are loved and appreciated


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